


Tear You Apart

by trepidatingboarfetus



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anxiety Disorder, Catholic Guilt, Dark, Horny Teenagers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking, Teen Angst, Teen Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27864229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus
Summary: It's cute in a way, till you cannot speakAnd you leave to have a cigarette, your knees get weakAn escape is just a nod and a casual waveObsessed about it, heavy for the next two daysIt's only just a crush, it'll go awayIt's just like all the others it'll go awayOr maybe this is danger and he just don't knowYou pray it all away but it continues to grow
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	Tear You Apart

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics in the summary, the title, and something Michael says in class all come from the song Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge. 
> 
> This was inspired by a piece of high school AU art by ctrevk on Tumblr where Michael quoted the "it's only a crush; etc" lines. I loved it, wouldn't leave me alone, thus this was born. The song's subject matter is a tad dark, and I mirrored the song, so Michael is a tad dark, and he's chock full of those other wonderful intricacies that make him Michael already, so yeah, uh, enjoy. Send me hate mail.

World History was the same boring fucking mess that it always was for him. The military parts were kind of cool because he got into the whole strategical stuff behind it as it reminded him of plays in football and basketball, but the rest just sucked since Mrs. Morris, who was as ancient as a cobwebbed stone Medusa from some book of old lore, droned on and on, and he tapped his pencil with no rhythm in mind as he casually kept an eye on the clock. It was ten till three, and thankfully, it was one of the few nights of the week he didn’t have anywhere to be except to his own devices. 

Lately though, those devices had been coinciding with a face across the room that wouldn’t quite get the fuck out of his mind. 

A couple of misfires had already happened over the past few months. He’d nearly talked himself into wanting to go over and greet that face at one of Amanda’s parties which were usually huge ravers, and he knew she had a slight thing for him still, but she was yesterday’s news like a long damn time ago. He had kept telling her that after he saw her pert lips wrapped around Brad Snider’s diseased dick, but everyone kept treating them like they were going to get back together because they were just _meant to be_ or whatever that shit meant. Like no one gave a damn what _he_ wanted. He felt like fucking Molly Ringwald in one of those shitty movies he _really_ didn’t want to admit he liked. 

And Blondie had been playing at one point. It was Heart of Glass with everyone slowly swaying together to the beat, and he’d thought maybe he could gather the balls, that maybe it was finally the right timing to whisper a little something--

But then cold brown eyes had glared hard at him from behind that spiky brunette mullet, and Michael had gulped hard and said silently to himself, “Nah, fuck it.”

A few weeks after that, he’d nearly tripped over himself trying to catch up with Lester Crest who happened to be one of the few friends he knew of who could pass along a message because he was reduced to doing shit like a girl since he really didn’t know _what_ the fuck he was doing anymore, and he honestly knew he looked like a goddamn terror trying to run after this kind of unsuspecting nerdy kid in glasses and braces, but he was busy trying to make it seem like he was just asking for help with homework. After all, he was just some dumb jock, and that wasn’t unusual, right?

Except he wasn’t that damn dumb, and Lester had known that, so when Michael had produced a note for him to pass, he’d stared at Michael with about as much indifference as he could muster, but his right eye had been twitching ever so slightly -- enough to make Michael cough and laugh nervously while trying to think of a good reason why there had been a note to begin with. 

He’d always been good at coming up with an excuse or a small white lie for anything, but this? Fuck no. Couldn’t think of one damn thing. Notta. 

And really, could he blame himself when in reality it had been because the recipient of said note had walked into the science hallway and right behind Lester with a sharp, “What the _fuck_ is going on here?”

Could he blame himself for having been distracted by toned muscles and a cutoff Dead Kennedys band shirt over ripped jeans? _Could he?_

His mind had frozen, couldn’t process what was going on...was only stuck on getting the hell out of there and away from the object of his current nightly wet dreams, so he’d tried to play it cool with a bob of his head, a polite wave, and a quick dashing the fuck out of there, praying no one was the wiser. 

He’d escaped outside to the old school bell where everyone had a smoke or a quick drink, huffing and puffing, not exactly sure if it was from anxiety, exertion, or a combination of the both. Smoking hadn’t done him any favors either; he’d been so breathless and knock-kneed, he’d found himself looking for a place to sit so he didn’t pass out. 

Would be nothing more embarrassing than the football-captain-slash-star-quarterback to be found passed out on the school lawn with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, right?

So here he was, still hadn’t built up the nerve to do more than look but no touch. And goddamn did he want to touch. It filled his fucking dreams every night, and sometimes even fueled his daytime jerk sessions. 

His mullet-haired punk angel sat across from him, appearing to actually be interested in whatever the fuck Mrs. Morris was saying. Michael traced each scar in the final minutes of class with his brain, idly wondering where the lanky boy had gotten them and how they’d taste under his tongue.

He knew, he _knew_. He was _not_ supposed to feel this way. His stepdad _and_ dad would beat him into an early grave. His mom would drink herself into hers. He was something of a hometown hero to people even though he hadn’t asked to carry that weight on his back, but it was thrown on you when you wanted to play a sport to escape, and it was especially worse if you dared to excel at anything. 

And he’d done that and then some, unfortunately.

His cheeks grew redder as it became more difficult to pry his eyes away from across the room. The jeans he wore were also incredibly tight, and he started whispering prayers in his head that Jesus would just end him now before the bell rang. 

“It’s only just a crush, it’ll go away,” he murmured to himself while eyeballing his brunette obsession. Then sighing, he turned to the window and peered outside, waiting for the sound that would signal his freedom. “It’s just like all the others, it’ll go away.”

It felt like he was kidding himself though. This was something different. This wasn’t like every crush he’d had in the past, cutesy dumbass high school bullshit. It came from somewhere dark and adult buried deep within him, something he wasn’t even aware he’d had until the first time he’d heard Trevor Philip’s Canadian accent.

He’d always had to be so gentlemanly with the girls, so soft and caring. Trevor just _looked_ like he’d enjoy being chewed up and spit out without a fucking care, and that’s what Michael _wanted_ , dammit. He wanted someone who would take it as hard and as fast and as rough and _however_ he wanted to give it. 

But it was wrong. Everything he was taught at mass said it was wrong. His feelings were wrong. 

Right?

It didn’t matter though. His crush grew into a fixation that wouldn’t rest until he was happily holding him tightly against him, listening to his heart beat wildly with abandon, smelling the palpable fear and sweat cover his skin in a fine sheen. He wanted to order him to lie still with his lovely honey-colored eyes shut. If he didn’t look at him, Michael couldn’t lose his nerve. 

He wanted to fucking tear him apart, piece by piece, and build him back up. 

The dinging jostled him out of his thoughts, and he ran even though he could feel the eyes on his back, just _knew_ that gossip was already starting to brew, but he didn’t give a shit. He just wanted to get the hell out and have a few smokes before the reality of homelife caved in.

And the reality of whatever the fuck was going on in his head. 

The massive school bell was out of the question as too many people were hovering around it, so he breezed by it and kept walking toward home. Closeby, there was a small park with a stream that had a small bridge over it that went widely unused except by the old folks in the morning, and it was where he could get some peace this time of day.

The bitter burning of the cigarette felt glorious as he took a drag from it, savoring the harshness and letting it free him from the day’s ruminations even if momentarily. He closed his eyes and felt nothing but the autumn winds. No anxiety, no hatred, no depression, no pressure, no guilt, no weird new feelings to categorize, no obsessive desires.

Someone cleared their throat from behind him, startling him out of even that blessed tidbit of silence, and he was just about ten seconds from giving whoever a piece of his mind when he realized he was standing face to face with one very flustered-looking Trevor Philips.

He was holding a dreaded crumpled piece of paper. “Uh, what the fuck--”

Michael’s eyes moved as if they were weighed down and traveling in the deepest part of the sea for how long it took them to trail to Trevor’s hands, and then when his mind caught up, he began trembling like that rabid dog Cujo did in that one flick, foaming at the mouth, sputtering and jumping about, “ _That!_ I swear I can explain!”

The brown eyes before him shifted to the ground, appearing crestfallen suddenly, but the lips moved into a deft smirk. He stuttered slightly though, betraying the confidence he was trying to show, “Eh, f-figured it was a...you _know_ , m-mistake. Had to be for some airhead girl. Told Les he was out of his fucking mind.”

Michael stood gawking at him as if he were speaking another language. He could see Trevor’s lips forming words, but the sounds weren’t really reaching him; everything was lost in translation. He nodded his head dumbly until he saw movement with Trevor walking slowly away, and panic gripped his heart. “No, uh, wait...uh, Trevor, _hey!_ ”

Trevor whipped around and gaped at him like a fish. “I didn’t even know you knew my fucking name, football star.”

“Michael,” he huffed out. Jesus, why the fuck was it so hard to talk. Chatting up girls had always come naturally, but one dude, and he blew a damn gasket. Why??

“Huh?”

“My name is--”

“Yeah, everyone knows what the fuck _your_ name is, Mikey Townhero -- oh, I mean _Townley_ ,” he snorted derisively. “What I don’t understand is how you know _my_ name.”

Michael swore his face was like the Grinch’s heart, growing three shades of red that day. “Uh, you see...I...uh….” He looked down lamely at the grass beneath his feet, not knowing what to say. How did he explain the growing need inside of him to this sarcastic prick standing before him? This motherfucker was just waiting to laugh at him, he reasoned. Just _had_ to be.

Trevor’s eyes lit up. “Oh shit! Les _wasn’t_ wrong! It _was_ from you!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Michael shouted, darting his head back and forth in an effort to make sure they weren't putting on a show for anyone. He was close to home, and the last thing he needed was someone running their mouth to his mom or worse. 

Trevor slinked with catlike grace towards him and whispered smoothly in his ear. “If you’re afraid of your oh so wondrous reputation tanking, we can go somewhere else and talk, you know.” He let his body brush up against Michael’s just a little as if trying to test the waters and just as swiftly pulled back. His eyes searched Michael’s, glowing almost amberlike in the afternoon sunshine, and his own cheeks were faintly pink. “I...I mean I wouldn’t mind talking.”

Michael nodded, but inside he could feel things escalating. Trevor maybe liked him back? Oh Jesus Christ, what was he going to _do?_

* * *

He’d been in the middle of a pleasant dream where he’d thrown a seventy-five yarder that had won them the state championship, and Trevor had been excitedly dancing all over him in a cheerleading outfit when he heard a rapping at his window. It started out quietly, then grew louder and frequent until he swore he heard a name with it being hissed. 

“ _Mikey!_ ”

Rubbing his eyes, he noticed with great annoyance that his alarm clock read 1:23 am, and he yanked himself out of bed to open the window and mumble hotly, “What the hell are you doing here at this--” 

The words died in his mouth as Trevor pushed the window up more and began to climb in. Upon further inspection, his face was bruised, bloody, and swelling in spots. 

As he flicked his table lamp on, Trevor's eye -- the one that wasn't already swelling closed -- drew shut in retaliation. "Turn it off, Mikey," he whined lowly, moving his head away. 

Something bad and familiar twisted in Michael's guts. He knew Trevor lived in the same trailer park, at the opposite end maybe, but they were both still trailer trash. "What the hell happened to you?"

"My mom's latest boyfriend after about a case," he laughed sourly, plopping down hard on Michael's bed.

He was trying so fucking hard to not have any stupid thoughts, but Trevor was on his bed, and he'd just had that _goddamn_ _dream_...this really wasn't the best timing. "Look, I'm sorry, Trevor, but my ass will be the next one getting kicked if you're found here," he complained listlessly, scratching his head.

Everything hushed rapidly and for quite some time until he heard it -- barely registered it, but it was still there -- Trevor was sobbing weakly.

"Don't...don't send me away, please," he cried and hiccupped in a manner Michael had never heard from him, and it was damning him to Hell, he was certain, with the amount and manner of perverse thoughts flying through his head. "I just wanted to be here with you. I know that's fucking crazy, OK, but I feel like we--"

"Have a connection," Michael finished for him.

"Yeah," Trevor answered breathlessly and closed his eye again. "I...I know how it is, OK. Can't do anything out in the open. Everything for you is on the line. I'm just some stupid-ass punk no one gives a fuck about."

Michael swallowed and hesitantly took Trevor's hands in his, marveling at how well their fingers fit together. " _I_ do."

Trevor rolled his eyes and looked away. "You're just saying that."

It was now or never. Maybe he could do this finally here in the tranquility that the darkness offered, along with his sleepiness that gave him a bit of added easiness. "No, I'm fucking not. You have no idea how long I've liked you."

Abruptly, Trevor seemed to forget how to speak. "Oh."

In turn, Michael grew bolder. "You don't know how long I've dreamed of just reaching out and touching you. You don’t understand how much I want to do that.” 

“Oh?” Trevor bit his bottom lip, and to Michael, it was the most delectable action he’d ever seen. He wanted to know what it felt like too, and he leaned forward without even a warning to himself, taking in the velvetiness, along with tasting the tangy metallic residue of blood and something far sweeter behind it. He moaned into that kiss and nearly fell into the body below him, only stopping when he remembered that Trevor was hurt. 

“It’s fucking hard,” he complained languidly and rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he felt that old intrusive nervousness creep in along with the all-too-familiar signs of a hard-on in his pajama pants. “You...you’re on my bed, and I was just having a dirty dream with you in it...this is so fucking hard.”

Trevor’s hand came up against the tent in his pants, and he hissed with need. “How hard is it, eh, Mikey?” 

And God as his witness, how a Canadian accent could be so fucking ridiculously seductive, he didn’t know, but it was, and it just about did him in then. “Trev, you’re playing with fire, you fucking asshole.”

A sickening grin formed on Trevor’s face, not unlike the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. “Oh, I have a pet name now too, huh? Too bad I was hoping for baby. Also, it’s good for you that I _love_ playing with fire.”

Michael gazed at him incredulously, worrying the inside of his right cheek before rolling his neck to relieve the tension which was starting to settle there. “Jesus, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Trevor chuckled and jerked him towards the bed until he fell against his mattress again with a resounding sigh. He danced his fingers along Michael’s belly, tickling the skin there. “So show me what you want to do to me so badly, Mikey,” he whispered against his neck as he licked a trail from there to his ear. 

It wasn’t fair to him that Trevor had the upper hand. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go in Michael’s dreams, and parents be all but damned, he used his muscle mass and fat to flip himself over Trevor, pinning him down effortlessly. 

Trevor peered up at him sheepishly yet expectantly. Now this, _this_ was how it had gone in the dirtiest of his thoughts. This felt right. In his mind’s eye, he could see them together always, just like this, and biting down his anxiety, he wouldn’t care what anyone said because this piece of Heaven on Earth glancing up at him was worth it.

He grabbed a handful of Trevor’s brown tufts of hair and tugged his face towards him, bringing him in for a quick kiss, causing the other boy to keen and push into him with want. He smirked, relishing the notion that he was no longer the only one caving into this impeding thirst. “How’s that, _baby?_ ”

Trevor released the tiniest of wails, and Michael cringed with pause, just awaiting the arrival of footsteps but was relieved when there wasn’t even so much as a peep throughout the doublewide. The boy under him giggled gleefully. “Is that all you’ve got, sugar?”

That tore it. Something deep in his belly unfurled like a great awakening beast, and he released his own maniacal leer while looming over the now awestruck teen. Still holding onto his hair for dear life with one hand and embracing him close with the other, Michael purred into Trevor’s left ear, “I want to fucking tear you apart.” 

And all that greeted him was the blessed beating of Trevor’s heart as it raced, a sound he didn’t ever wish to forget.


End file.
